An English Man's Dreams
by Darbracken
Summary: A series of nightmares experienced by England. Contains various situations and pairings.
1. America

Arthur was a military man through and through. Arthur's father and his father's father before him had been in the military. As far back as one wished to look in the Kirkland line the profession had been passed between father and son. Arthur was no different; it would not be a surprise if his very heart beat to the rhythm of a military tattoo.

Alfred, though, was different. Young, idealistic - a boy who ought to be running through wheat fields, holding aloft a wooden airplane and making silly noises. Alfred should not have been pressed up to him, four inches in water, blood, guts and mud. Alfred's eyes should never have seen the horror of trench warfare. Alfred was too young, too naïve, too human.

Arthur had witnessed it, the slow decline of mentality. At first the boy had been all smiles and thumbs up. Any room would have lit up with his presence. The soldiers adored him and snatched whatever moments they could to listen to his smooth American accent crack jokes that were only partially funny. Alfred was infectious. From a distance Arthur had watched and hidden tight lipped smiles.

War soon changed a man.

After six months Alfred barely spoke, he barely slept – though no one could be accused of sleeping well. Muscular limbs had become thin, features gaunt. When he thought no one was looking he'd occasionally weep. Death rained all around them, the bodies of their comrades scattering the land between trenches. Alfred loved the world but there was nothing but despair offered in return. Arthur kept close to him, worried, his silent shadow.

Then the order had come. "Over the top lads!"

And Alfred had stayed still. Eyes wide, frame trembling in shock and fear. Alfred was not a coward, he'd fought valiantly but this unforgiving conflict had torn out his heart. Sickness wrenched Arthur's stomach, grasping the American's wrist, yanking, twisting, trying to get him to his feet. Alfred would not come, he shook like a leaf – too terrified to move.

It was no secret what they did with 'cowards'. Men were either shot from the front or shot from behind. The idea of the boy, barely a man before court martial, before a firing squad… Arthur could not bear it. Sinking down he pulled the slender frame close, tucking him against his jacket, the roar of explosions deafening overhead.

Dirty blonde strands were stroked, comforting him like he would comfort a wounded animal, pressing the pale face against his chest as he slowly drew out his gun. Just one shot. Mercy. Release from hell.

Hot blood swelled down his abdomen as Alfred's body fell still, his body tensing.

Nothing made sense anymore. Why were they fighting? Why were they dying? Carefully he laid Alfred into the mud before he pulled himself up over the top of the trench to dice with death once more.


	2. Finland

_The silence was eerie at first, it penetrated to a subconscious level that made him terrified. Silence, stillness was not something he coped well with. Every part of his body ached, every part of his mind screamed. Somewhere in the blinding whiteness Tino waited, soundlessly .It was a game of patience that Arthur was slowly losing. Finland was relentless and so much more acclimatised to the snow than he was._

_Roughly he jammed snow into his mouth to mask hot exhalations, lying as still as he could. Faintly in the distance he could hear Leningrad. Ivan was so close, so very close he could almost reach out to him. Ivan was starving. Ivan's people were on the edge of depravity. Soon they would eat one another._

_Arthur couldn't let Ivan face it alone._

_Tino was out there though, waiting._

_For three days he'd edged closer, spending every second in abject misery. If Finland saw him before he saw Finland it would all be over._

_Bowing his head he pressed frozen lashes into the snow, almost crying. At least he could trade blows with Ludwig, tear into him to expression his turbulent emotions. The quietness was swallowing him. It was consuming him._

_A sharp blow rolled him onto his spine, sprawling out as the Finn appeared in his vision. The smile was soft, regretful._

"_Pitkäst aikaa Arthur."_

_The gun was blurry in his vision._

"_Näkemiin."_

_**BANG.**_

The morning after Arthur was particularly clingy. Why he'd dreamt of such times he was not sure, after all he had not been close with Ivan then, nor would he have sought to protect him from Tino. Now, though, things were different. Now unconsciously he piled four crumpets and two eggs onto the Russian's breakfast plate rather than the usual two and one. Ivan was going to find himself particularly well fed until Arthur was no longer inflicted by memories of that particular nightmare.


	3. France

_The room was plain, cream coloured, devoid of furniture but still familiar. The wood was warm underneath his cheek as he stirred languidly. Arthur had been here before; it held a certain nostalgic ambience. Fingertips stretched across wood, tracing whorls peacefully until he reached one in particular. As fingertips outlined it a memory burst forth, vivid, almost suffocating him. _

_Cries stifled, his wrist between his teeth as he tried to silence himself. The world had narrowed to the heady sensation of being filled and firm hands on his hips. Eyes had drawn level with the floor and its memory had been burnt into him with each unsteady gasp as he'd been teased towards climax._

_This was Francis's room. So where was Francis? Easing back he inspected the room, no trace of man to be found. It made him uneasy._

_So he searched._

_At first it was methodical, unhurried but as time passed he became more frantic. Where was Francis? What had happened? Everywhere he could remember the Frenchman ever having some interest he visited. Scouring high and low, trying to catch even a hint of his whereabouts._

_In desperation he had asked Antonio and Gilbert. Their expressions had been sympathetic, sorrowful as though they knew some greater truth._

_Panic had driven him to Germany's door, almost hammering it down. At length the German had invited him in, sitting him down, even going as far as to bring him tea._

"_You really don't know where he is Arthur?"_

_There was the look again, sympathy, sorrow. What in blazes was going on? Pain settled in his chest, his heart starting to race as firmly Ludwig squeezed his shoulder._

"_Ja, then I will take responsibility... this time." Lips pressed firmly together as he found Ludwig rubbing his back comfortingly. If anything it frightened him more._

"_Arthur, Francis is dead. You keep… forgetting. We have tried to help but every time you do not believe it. You cry for days und then you lock yourself in Francis's house for some time. When we next see you you've forgotten again. What happened was a terrible accident Arthur, no one blames you for his death. I mean this in the best way possible but I think maybe you should seek help. It is not healthy, everyone is worried."_

Violently he jerked awake, a sound that could have been made by a wounded animal dying on his lips. Beneath him the pillow was sodden and limbs were shaky. Hauling himself onto all fours he grasped his phone and somehow fumbled through his contacts until he found 'Frog Amour'. It was 3am in France but he didn't care. The phone was crushed to his ear, waiting the heart stopping rings it took to hear a sleepy French voice on the other end of the line.

Exhausted and relieved all that answered Francis were quiet sobs before Arthur hung up.


	4. Germany

_They were up close, bodies tight as blow rained down. Fists flew each punch hard, merciless. Neither would give ground, neither prepared to step away. Pain exploded down his body as a particularly violent upper cut forced him to step backwards. Then Ludwig was after him, hand around his throat, slamming him against the wall. Tears crowded along his lashes as his skull impacted upon the unrelenting surface. Lips curved, showing Ludwig's teeth as he crashed him again and again against the fortification._

"_I will NEVER RELENT!"_

_Arthur writhed beneath him, fury flashing across emerald eyes. Another impact as his head cracked back, and fear began to overtake anger. Arthur was going to die. Crazed blue eyes stared through him as Ludwig continued to loom over him._

_Francis._

_The image of the terrified Frenchman clutching at a rifle burst into his foggy mind, blood hot and metallic in his mouth. Gathering his strength he lashed out, nails flying at the German's eyes, trying to blind him. It was only luck that his mark struck, their bodies pried apart as Ludwig fell back. Violently Arthur spat, spraying blood across the floorboards._

_The world swum, colours fading into an endless expanse of cream._

_Heat burnt through him, sweat covering every inch of pale flesh. Though internally he writhed his body would not move. The swift beat of his pulse throbbed through his every sense until soft voices broke through._

_Matthew was here? Fingers felt cold around his._

"_Please Alfred, I'm scared, Arthur can't take much more, he's going to die."_

_Though words were soft he could hear Matthew's voice breaking with emotion. Why wouldn't his body move? MOVE! MOVE! Mentally he screamed but it would not comply, instead it arched against his volition and he was aware of a sharp scream, belatedly he realised it was his own._

_This wasn't what war was about._

_When you went to war you met on the battlefield, your army and theirs. You did battle and a winner was decided. This wasn't what was meant to happen._

_The world lurched again and he was stood before the hollow shell of Coventry cathedral._

_Explosions deafened him, falling all around, the air hot, the scent of burning flesh rife._

"NO!"

Disorientated he almost fell over covers. In the distance a car misfired, his muddled mentality falling into disarray. The scream of terror froze in his throat as he tore out of the suddenly unfamiliar house. Panic overtook him as every street looked the same, the darkness robbing him of sight. Cold rain embraced him as his mouth opened and he issued forth an inhumane scream.

It had terrified Francis to see him come so undone. Screaming almost insanely, arms clutched around himself. Arthur didn't want to die. Arthur wanted to live. Arthur wanted to protect Francis and defeat Ludwig but Arthur was dying.

It had taken Francis over an hour to calm him enough that he could be lead back inside.

"Mon amour, we are not at war anymore."

Over and over he'd whispered the phrase, in English, in French and a couple of times in Gaelic just to see if it would reach through the Englishman's fractured mentality. Tightly he'd held him until Arthur had stopped resisting him and had quietened. Eventually Arthur had come back to him with quiet sobs, pressing his face against his chest. Only then had Francis begun to relax.


	5. Canada

_The heat was stifling, breathing difficult as he stumbled forwards blindly, black smoke pouring from every direction._

"_Matthew!"_

_Hoarse almost with yelling out into the darkness his chest heaved with a violent cough. Crimson cloth was pressed across his mouth, trying to clear his throat desperately. Panic surged up from within at the thought Matthew had become lost in the carnage. Everything Arthur had sought to prevent, everything he'd sought to protect…_

"_Matthew!"_

_Washington was burning._

_Yet all Arthur could think about was finding Matthew, ascertaining his safety. In the distance he heard Alfred screaming, needle sharp, almost tortured. Along the back of his neck hairs roused, a heavy chill settling in the pit of his stomach._

_Snow began to fall, cool against burnt cheeks. Then from within the flames a figure emerged, the air suddenly seeming frigid despite the hellish scenes all around them._

_Violet eyes stared at him. Accusing him. Judging him._

"_Why did you take me from Pere England? I loved Pere very much. Why did someone so unfit take me? Pere loved me so much but you, you only had eyes for Alfred."_

_Words were frozen in his throat, his tongue suddenly unable to move._

_Still Canada advanced, seizing him by the dark collar of his crimson uniform. A violent shake and he was rattled. When had Matthew become so tall? When had Matthew stopped being his little boy?_

"_I love Pere, you will never be my Papa."_

_What scared him the most was the coldness in the Canadian's eyes. Merciless. It only took one violent push and he was in the flames and he was burning. Matthew was watching, somewhere between interest and disgust._

When he'd awoken he'd been a mess. It had taken Ivan hours to coax him out of the bathroom, eyes red and swollen with tears he'd shed. Arthur didn't breath a word of the nightmare, though every now and then he'd check flesh to make sure there were no burn marks there.

It had been more than a week before he'd dared to sleep again.


	6. Canada Again

_Across the desk two Canadians faced him. Matthew was pale, tired and quieter than normal. Margaret seemed to let unspoken words linger upon her lips. Separating them was a single white envelope. Upon its surface his name was written neatly, definitely Matthew's script. The silence only served to heighten the tension before Margaret broke it, squeezing her brother's shoulders firmly._

"_It's addressed to you."_

_Though Arthur could quite clearly see that he was reluctant to accept it. To accept the letter was to have to read the content and then act upon it. It would be no surprise. Carefully he took envelope and slid it across wood, every second weighing heavier on his shoulders. This was one of –those- wasn't it? A break up letter. Sorry Arthur but your family's no longer good enough. Cheerio._

_Keeping his expression deceptively mild he pried it open, inhaling deeply before he pulled out the correspondence. The paper had been stained with age, a rich sepia, frayed at the very edges. Eyes flicked up to his charges. Margaret had wrapped delicate hands around her brother's eyes, blinding him. A wicked smile had curved her lips. What on earth was going on?_

_Anxiety swelled beyond its already moderate levels as carefully he unfurled the letters._

"_1776_

_Dearest Alfred,_

_Having read the reports I long to tell you that you have my heartfelt support in your endeavours to break away from the tyranny of the British Empire. Brother, we shall stand together and defeat the man who has taken so much from me and who restrains so much of the world from you._

_Your loving brother._

_Mathieu."_

_Fingers trembled as he lowered the correspondence. That wasn't how it had happened. Canada had stood by his side, even in the face of France's increased involvement in the war. Canada had been loyal, true, he'd tended him in the years of isolation and insanity that had followed his defeat at Yorktown._

"_Poor Arthur, you never knew how Mattie felt about you eh? The only reason he even stayed with you was because of me. I pitied a poor, weak man like you." Pretty features turned into a sneer. "We don't want you anymore England, sign our release forms and we'll be on our way and Mattie will never have to see your disgusting face again."_

_A shaky hand signed a familiar document – The Canada Act of 1982 and then they were gone. In stunned silence he remained, his only companion the tattered remnants of a letter that rendered him betrayed once again._


End file.
